


Down On the Corner And Halfway to Piccadilly

by Ad_Absurdum



Series: Alternative Universes and Love Letters [2]
Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Smiths
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Rentboys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1194204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ad_Absurdum/pseuds/Ad_Absurdum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One evening Steven meets a boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down On the Corner And Halfway to Piccadilly

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Never happened. All slander and lies.  
>  **A/N:** Vaguely inspired by "Andy, the Handyman" by George Formby. And I do mean very vaguely.

Steven turned the corner and smiled absent-mindedly at a boy standing on the other side of the street, under an awning of the pawnshop there. The boy returned Steven's half-smile with a half-smile of his own and took another drag on his cigarette.

Steven walked on.

The scene repeated almost daily - well, evening-ly really - for the last month. Two months ago another boy, called Johnny, knocked on Steven's door - an event Steven was sure was bound to go down in musical history - and now they had a band with a great name and everything and Steven could already see how they would change British pop music forever.

For now, though, they rehearsed. Johnny finally found a decent drummer and for the last month, nearly every day, Steven took a bus downtown to their rehearsal rooms and nearly every evening, making a trip back from the bus stop, he passed the pawnshop and the boy under its awning.

Steven wasn't sure if the boy had always been there or came to stand in that place just recently, but somehow - Steven wasn't entirely sure how either - he and the boy had began to exchange nods in greeting. Steven supposed it was only polite to at least acknowledge-in-passing someone you saw nearly every day. Somewhat like a neighbour, but not quite, the boy became a fixture; a familiar face in the crowd of strangers Steven met on his journeys.

Steven sometimes wondered what the boy did exactly, standing there all evenings. Hair down to his shoulders, tight jeans and a black leather jacket. Sometimes alone, sometimes in the company of other boys in tight jeans, jackets and sleevless shirts, smoking and sneering and exchanging incomprehensible jokes.

The pawnshop had been closed when Steven was just a child, so the boys couldn't be its customers. Nor hired help or the owner's minders.

Did pawnshop owners have minders? Steven wondered. Probably not. It was more likely he watched too many gangster movies.

By the time his steps took him ten yards past the shop, Steven's mind was already occupied by something else, leaving the boy and his friends behind.

Until the next non-meeting, two days later.

Steven was thinking about his conversation with Johnny, which in turn was about how their bassist should really be someone who could actually play, as opposed to someone who merely owned a bass, when he suddenly saw a flash of white where normally there should not be one.

On the other side of the street, under the pawnshop awning, stood the familiar boy, but he looked different. Steven almost stopped dead in his tracks. He only managed to avoid making a spectacle of himself because he was actually too shocked to stop and stare. He simply let his body move on autopilot and his feet walk down the familiar road home.

Though he did notice that the boy's smile directed at him was a little bashful. So he did stare after all.

Well, he could hardly be blamed, Steven rationalised to himself. The boy got a haircut and dyed his hair! Blonde!

Steven blinked, his eyes unmindful of the sights before him and instead seeing the image of the boy leaning against the brick wall of the pawnshop's doorway in all his blond glory.

Steven wasn't sure how to take that change. What had happened to make the boy do this? Was it a change for the better? Maybe the boy had too finally realised that when your hair is wrong, your entire life is wrong. Not that there was anything especially wrong with the boy's hair in the first place, as far as Steven remembered.

Maybe this called for a closer look.

But the next evening the boy was not where he usually was. There were two other boys Steven sometimes saw - the boy's friends, he supposed - bickering about something and looking strangely elegant with their James Dean quiffs and cigarettes tucked behind one ear.

The boy wasn't there the next evening either. And the next and the one after that.

Irrationally, Steven felt a bit sad. Like the boy's abandoned childhood friend the boy left behind in the old school and the old neighbourhood when the boy himself moved to another town that may as well be another country.

Steven scoffed at himself. Good Lord and Oscar Wilde above, he was getting sentimental in his ripe old age of twenty three.

He turned the corner and looked to the other side of the street. The boy was still absent.

The next evening Steven was determined to finally drop his surreptitious glances and accept the fact that the boy was just another stranger, no more familiar and even less missed than a bus conductor Steven saw on his travels downtown.

He turned the usual corner and promptly forgot his resolution as a pinprick of a match flaring caught his eye. He glanced towards the pawnshop awning and there he was - the boy was lighting a cigarette, the tiny flame illuminating his pale face and glinting off an earring Steven had never noticed.

Steven was unable to stop a smile from showing on his face. The boy looked up and smiled as well, his waving to put out the lit match turning into waving in greeting.

Steven tried to stop smiling. He lowered his eyes and caught the sight of the T-shirt the boy was wearing.

It was unusually warm for a late Manchester evening and the boy had taken off his ever-present jacket. And this time Steven did stop and stare.

The boy had a New York Dolls shirt!

Steven's heart leaped in his chest. Was it possible he found another soul in this dreary place, that could somehow understand him? Even a little?

He had to know. He simply had to.

Before he could persuade himself otherwise, Steven was crossing the road, eyes fixed on the boy.

"You like the New York Dolls?" Steven asked without preamble as he reached the target of his stare.

The boy seemed taken aback at first. He'd been watching Steven's approach from under his eyelashes, with a curiously coy half-smile on his face. Now though, it looked like he was genuinely surprised by the question.

He glanced down at himself, to where Steven's eyes were fixed on his shirt.

"Oh, right." He nodded, his expression clearing in understanding. "They're all right."

Steven smiled widely.

"Have you heard both of their albums? Which single do you like best? Have you seen them play live?"

The boy bit his lip as if in thought. Or as if he was trying not to laugh, Steven thought, his brain finally catching up with his mouth and criticising the silly eagerness of his words at once.

The boy didn't laugh, though. He just shook his head.

"Nah, I was just a kid when they came to Manchester." He smiled, almost apologetically.

"And I've only got one single." He shrugged. "The LPs were too expensive. But yeah, the band are brilliant," the boy added, smiling again.

It was Steven's turn to chew his lip. He could feel the need to say something like 'I could let you borrow the ones I've got' except he _didn't_ let anyone borrow his records. And especially not strangers.

He briefly contemplated telling the boy that he could come with Steven to his house to listen to some of them, but he also _never_ invited people - even friends - to his house.

But the need to offer a fellow fan _something_ grew steadily stronger.

"Oi, Andy, you're prattling about that bunch of poofs again?" came a shout - accompanied by a laugh - from one of the other boys standing under the awning. Whom Steven only now noticed.

So the boy's name was Andy?

"Fuck off," 'Andy' shouted back, a toothy grin on his face. "You listen to the fucking Flock of Seagulls. Fucking poofters if I ever saw any."

Even though Steven grimaced internally at the ugly words and even though he'd certainly choose a different way of expressing his distaste, he had to agree with the sentiment. Flock of Seagulls were an abomination and anyone unfortunate enough to like them deserved a whipping. Verbal or otherwise.

"They're quality, you miserable cunt." The other boy shouted, but Andy didn't seem offended. He gave the other boy a V-sign and turned to Steven with a sort of sheepish look on his face.

"They wouldn't know quality if it bit them on the arse."

Steven silently agreed.

They stood for a moment like this, Steven chewing his lip and the boy darting glances down the street.

"Um," he finally nodded in the direction of Steven's usual route home. "D'you want to take a walk? I need to buy some smokes."

Steven nodded, relieved a little - he was never good at combatting awkward silences and this way he could have a bit more time to talk to his fellow fan. The novelty of this rarity was enough to make Steven want to continue the conversation.

The boy swung his jacket over his shoulder and they started off.

"So, your name is Andy?" Steven thought it appropriate to get the introductions out of the way.

"Hm? Oh, yeah." The boy put his hands in the pockets of his jeans and shrugged.

"I'm Steven."

Andy huffed a laugh. "Hi, Steven."

Steven pursed his lips, recognising the faint ridiculousness of the situation. He thought he'd better get back to the only subject he could talk about at all.

"So, when did you start listening to the Dolls? Oh, and did you see how the Piccadilly Records window was decorated when their album came out?"

"Erm, no." Andy's tone mixed apology and amusement. "At that time I was into me Mum's record collection. Neil Young and 60's girl bands."

"Tch, Neil Young," Steven scoffed, but his little fannish heart leaped at the mention of the girl bands.

"Hey, don't mock Neil Young," Andy laughed and shoved Steven playfully.

Steven's eyes went wide. Wasn't that a gesture of comfortable male friendships? All the potential affection expressed with a spot of mild violence. Steven wasn't quite sure - he'd never had such a friendship. Was that what normal people had?

"He's quality as well, you know," Andy was meanwhile saying.

Steven's mind returned to here and now.

"And here I thought your taste in music was almost as good as mine. Wrong again." Steven sighed dramatically.

There was a pause during which Steven realised that he had entered into some sort of banter with Andy. Who was still a total stranger. Unused to Steven's sense of humour. It was probably the end of this conversation and this walk.

He glanced at Andy from the corned of his eye. He was greeted by a grin and then genuine laughter.

"Fuck, you're sharp."

Steven smiled slightly. "I do try."

Andy, still grinning, bumped his shoulder against Steven's. "I like that."

Steven was nonplussed. Had he somehow just befriended someone?

They talked about the Dolls some more, stopped at a shop where Andy bought his cigarettes and at that point Steven made a decision.

A little awkwardly, he invited Andy over to his house. To listen to the Dolls' records.

Andy's face lit up with a smile and seeing this, Steven somehow felt good about the invitation, himself and the world in general. It was an odd feeling, but one he could probably get used to.

When they reached Kings Road and Steven's house, Steven opened the door and led Andy inside and then up the stairs to his room.

"Steven, is that you?" A woman's voice floated up behind them. The next moment the - presumably - owner of the voice stood in the doorway to what had to be a sitting room downstairs.

"Yes, mother."

Steven paused on his way up. Andy moved closer to him and looked curiously at the newcomer. A quiet 'Hello' promptly issued forth.

Steven's mother looked from her son to Andy, a question in her eyes if not on her lips.

"We're going to listen to some records," Steven explained.

He heard Andy stifle a giggle beside him. He frowned. What was so funny?

"Oh, that's nice." Steven's mother smiled, looking a little puzzled herself. "Just don't play them too loudly, okay?"

"Of course." Steven smiled as well.

The woman went back into the room, and Steven continued upstairs. Andy hurried behind him.

"Your Mum is really pretty."

"Mhm," Steven hummed. "So I've heard."

They reached Steven's room. He opened the door and let Andy come in first.

Andy stopped on the threshold and looked around with wide eyes. Gaped really.

"Fuck. I've never seen so many books."

Steven sighed. "Yes, well. I've heard this one too. What _is_ it with people nowadays?"

Andy turned to him with a puzzled look.

"Huh?"

"Never mind." Steven said, resigned. Clearly they weren't going to have scintillating literary conversations if Andy had never been inside a library.

Oh well, not like Steven really expected those conversations. You can't have everything. Common musical reference point had to suffice.

"I meant I've never seen so many books outside a library." There was a defensive note in Andy's voice.

Steven paused for a second, wondering if Andy could actually read his mind.

"Or a bookshop," Andy continued. "Or a professor's study," he added.

Steven turned from the shelf where his records resided and looked at Andy half-curiously and half-suspiciously.

"Really?" He wondered what exactly Andy did in his life to know how a professor's study would look like.

"Uh huh." Andy grinned at him. He came closer and looked over Steven's shoulder at the vinyls neatly aligned on the shelf.

Suddenly his eyes widened.

"You've got The Cookies?"

He reached out, but stopped before his hand touched the record.

"May I?" he asked, looking at Steven.

Steven was doubly dumbfounded which never _ever_ happened to him. Andy knew The Cookies? And he asked for permission before rummaging through Steven's things?

He couldn't find his voice so he only nodded.

Andy deftly extracted the small single from the row and held it almost reverently.

"Me Mum loved them," he said, smiling slightly. Then he snorted with laughter. "I remember me Dad giving me a lecture when he caught me singing 'I Want a Boy For My Birthday'. I couldn't understand a word."

Steven blinked, feeling his heart speed up a bit. He was in serious danger of falling head over heels in sympathy here. Of starting a friendship even.

"Then what happened?" he asked, distracted by the surge of feelings inside him.

Andy's mouth twisted in a humourless smile. "Then my brother punched me, called me a fucking poofter and I stopped singing."

Steven stared, lost in a sudden fierce determination that when The Smiths finally managed to book a gig, he was going to sing this song for all he was worth. And at every future Smiths gig too.

"Would you like me to put it on?" he asked, finally resurfacing from under a pile of his, frankly uncontrollable, tender feelings.

Andy bit his lip and shook his head. "No, it's all right."

He slipped the single back into its place on the shelf and turned away.

"Come on, let's hear the Dolls."

Steven put the record on and when he turned around, he saw Andy was sitting on the bed. He frowned slightly, but to be fair the only other place Andy could sit in was an armchair by the window. There was a mound of books on the seat.

Steven shrugged imperceptibly and sat beside Andy. He slipped off his shoes and leant his back against the wall behind him. Andy did the same.

The music played and Steven noticed Andy was tapping his fingertips against his thigh to the rhythm. Not the drums rhythm, though. It was the bass line, Steven realised, raising his eyebrow.

Andy, as if feeling Steven's eyes on him, turned to him and then followed the line of Steven's gaze.

"Um," he breathed a laugh as his fingers stilled. "Old habit." He seemed almost embarrassed.

Steven said nothing, merely nodding his head.

Andy reached for his jacket, which he'd thrown down on the bed earlier.

"D'you mind if I smoke?" he asked, pulling a lighter from one pocket.

Steven crossed his arms. "I do actually."

Andy paused and looked at him unsure.

"Will you take me to a hospital when I get lung cancer from second-hand smoking?"

"Erm..." Andy stared for a moment and then let out an embarrassed giggle. "I've got something they give cancer patients too."

He reached into the jacket's other pocket and pulled out a small flat tin box. He opened it: inside were four cigarettes, a little misshapen and clearly hand-rolled.

Steven wasn't so innocent as to not know what they were. Besides, he'd seen Johnny smoke them too - rarely but still.

"Cannabis?"

Andy grinned. "Want one?"

Steven rolled his eyes. "No, thanks. I don't smoke."

"Er, so you mind if I...?" Andy looked longingly at the box.

Steven sighed. "No, it's fine."

He was getting soft in his old age, Steven mused, watching Andy light his spliff. Normal cigarettes actually smelt worse, though.

Andy inhaled the smoke and held his breath. Then he slowly let it out, considerately turning his head away so that he didn't blow the smoke in Steven's face. He repeated the procedure two or three times and closed eyes, relaxing.

Steven watched him closely. It was unusual for him to be staring so openly at another person, but the whole situation was unusual and Steven felt he could allow himself this liberty with Andy.

He watched Andy's profile, his eyebrows - beautifully shaped, his nose - strangely noble when seen from the right angle, his mouth - sucking on the cigarette and curving in a smirk.

Steven lifted his eyes and met Andy's amused gaze.

"You sure you don't want a drag?"

Steven made a face and Andy grinned.

"Come here," he said, kneeling on the bed so that he faced Steven. "I think you'll like it."

He leant over Steven, resting one hand on the wall beside Steven's head. He inhaled a lungful of smoke and leant even closer. His and Steven's lips were barely an inch away from each other.

"Breathe in," he whispered, breathing the smoke out.

Steven gasped involuntarily at Andy's nearness, inhaling some of the smoke. He hardly noticed, lost in confusion. _Why_ was Andy so close? what could it possibly mean?

Andy meanwhile took another drag and breathed the smoke into the tiny space between his and Steven's mouths.

Steven licked his lips unconsciously. It was all strange, unsettling, but also oddly exhilarating. He breathed in and licked his lips again.

And then Andy's lips, that up till now were gently smiling, touched Steven's in a kiss.

Steven froze in shock.

Andy delicately kissed first Steven's upper lip, then the lower one and when Steven opened his mouth - to protest? to ask why? he wasn't sure - Andy slipped the very tip of his tongue in, licking the sensitive skin on the inside of Steven's mouth.

And then he sat back, still smiling.

Steven blinked a couple of times.

Andy stubbed out the end of his joint in a saucer standing on the bedside table. When he turned back to Steven, he grinned again.

"Why so shocked?"

Steven blinked once more and finally found his voice.

"Well... this--" he nodded at Andy, "is not something that happens all that often to me. Or ever actually."

Andy leant closer to Steven.

"That's really sweet," he murmured. "I think I'm flattered."

Steven frowned, moving slightly away so that he could look at Andy's face. He had a feeling he was being subtly mocked.

Andy, however, followed and as his lips came to rest against Steven's ear, he asked:

"What do you want?"

What did he want? Steven had no idea. He was completely baffled by the situation, by Andy, by his own reactions and the question how did this happen, and to him of all people, rang persistently in his head.

These things emphatically _didn't_ happen to him.

Why did the boy he knew for barely half an hour want _this_ from him? with him?

Did he himself want it?

He wasn't sure. Maybe.

Yes. No.

Maybe.

Well, certain parts of him took a decided interest in the proceedings.

He pulled away from the other boy. He had to think. Mostly though, he just wanted to know why Andy suddenly decided to have sex with him.

"What do I want?" Steven repeated the question, distracted by Andy's tongue tracing his ear.

"Mhm." Andy sat back a little and put his hand on Steven's thigh. "A handjob is two quid, blowjob five, a fuck twenty and I'll let you fuck me for fifty."

Steven's blood turned to ice.

"What?" he managed to choke out.

"What?" Andy frowned.

Oh God, was this a joke? Steven stared at the other boy, completely unable to formulate any intelligent thought.

"You want money for..." he couldn't even finish the sentence.

"Well, yeah," Andy said as if it was obvious and absolutely natural. "You're really sweet, but work is work, you know."

"Work?" Did that come out a little high-pitched?

"Uh, yeah." Now Andy was looking at him as if Steven was the slowest fat-head Andy had the misfortune to ever meet.

"You picked me up," he went on, seeing some explanation was apparently in order, "you brought me here, to your house, and now we're getting down to business."

"What? No!" Steven was finally shocked into protesting.

"No?" Andy's eyebrow rose.

Steven shook his head. "I just wanted us to listen to some music, not... _this_." Steven looked pointedly at Andy's hand still on his thigh and grimaced slightly.

Andy snatched his hand away.

"You're serious?" he asked, a surprised look on his face.

"Of course I'm serious."

"Oh."

"What?" Steven was on a roll now. He glared at Andy. "Did you think I was looking for a rent boy?" He practically spat the word out.

"Well, how the fuck was I supposed to know you weren't?" Andy scowled. "You just came up to us and invited me over to your house. What did you think we stood there for night after night?"

"Evening," Steven corrected mulishly. Details like that were important. He never walked that street at night.

"What?" Andy stared at him.

"I never saw you there at night. I only ever take that road in the evenings."

Andy rolled his eyes. "Okay, whatever. Evenings then."

The question still hung in the air.

Steven shrugged. "I don't know. I thought you just met there to talk, chew the fat, whatever it's called."

Andy gave him a look. "In the street. Not a pub or a club or even someone's house."

"Well, if you had hung around public toilets, I wouldn't have made the mistake," Steven said, still scowling.

"So it's my fault now?"

"Yes."

Andy was still for a moment. Then his lips twitched and he snorted with laughter.

"You fucking bastard."

Steven couldn't quite suppress his own smile, but said nothing.

Andy sighed and shook his head amused. "I'd better be going then."

He put on his shoes and glanced at Steven. "You sure you don't want a blowjob? You could get a discount if you asked nicely." He winked.

Steven's cheeks went red. He was pretty sure it wasn't the first time during their rather excruciating conversation, but now he could actually feel his face heat up instead of being numb with shock.

He shook his head, trying to banish from his thoughts the image of Andy on his knees, in front of Steven, making good on his offer. Instead he focussed on something else.

"Why do you do this anyway?" He bit his lip, realising his question was really much too personal.

Andy looked at him as if he was stupid.

Steven sort of felt that way too now.

"Gee, I don't know. Money?"

Steven wanted to know more: why not a normal job? for how long? was whoring onself really so much better paid?

He asked none of those questions. It wasn't his business, was it? Andy would be right to tell him not to stick his nose where it didn't belong.

"Right. I'm off then." Andy picked up his jacket. "No need to see me out," he added, seeing Steven get up as well. "Don't worry, I won't nick anything on my way out."

"I wasn't worried about that," Steven said, his mind still stuck on Andy's... profession.

"Yeah?" Andy chuckled humourlessly. "Maybe you should."

He opened the door and went downstairs. Steven watched him from the doorway of his room until Andy went outside, quietly shutting the front door behind him.

Steven went back to his room and lay down on the bed, his mind deliberately blank. His eyes fell on the bedside table and the saucer standing there with the stubbed out marijuana cigarette. He touched his fingertip to his lips, remembering the taste of Andy and smoke.

He buried his face in the pillow, cringing with complete and utter mortification. It was awful, just awful.

* * *

For the next month Steven took another route home. One that didn't bring him anywhere near the pawnshop and the awning and Andy.

It was also twice as long, but Steven just couldn't face the other boy after what happened. Or almost happened. What difference did it make, anyway? He just couldn't possibly look Andy in the eye ever again.

Only once, about six weeks after that evening, Steven chose his usual way back home, though 'chose' wasn't exactly the word. He got distracted, lost in his own thoughts and got off the bus where the habit told him to. It was only when he was rounding the fateful corner that he remembered what he might see.

Too late of course to turn back.

The pawnshop's awning was empty, though. There was no sign of the boys usually loitering there. No sign of Andy. Not even so much as cigarette butts on the ground.

Steven sighed with relief. And if he also felt what might have been a tiny speck of disappointment, well, no one was there to know.

He shook his head at himself. But what was the use of being disappointed now? Absolutely none.

* * *

There was a sizzle, then a burst of sparks from under the mixing board and after that the smell of burning insulation.

"Fuck!"

"Hell, damn it."

And the sound of their producer and the second engineer cursing.

"Someone check the fuses!"

Steven watched as John - the producer - grabbed a small fire extinguisher and aimed it at the underside of the console.

"Wait!" Another technician rushed in with a blanket. "If you spray it, we'll never get the dust out of the cabling."

He dived under the board, blanket in hand, ready to put out the fire.

"Are you crazy?" John leant down. "Get out of there."

"No, it's okay," came the answer as the technician crawled out. "There's no fire. Something must've shorted, though." He looked back with a thoughtful frown. "Looks like some of the cables will have to be replaced."

"Fuck." John put down the fire extinguisher, sat in his chair and considered banging his head against the console in front of him. It just wasn't enough that they had too little time and too little money for the album's production. Well, for its re-production really, since the band turned their noses up at Tate's job.

Now they also had a broken mixing console. Fucking fantastic.

John wearily watched the sound engineer poke the buttons and levers on the console.

"Yep," the man finally announced. "The controls here are dead."

Seeing John's glare, he quickly added: "But the other side seems to work all right."

"Oh, for God's sake." John got up and did the only sensible thing he could in this situation. He went to phone someone who could fix this. Dialing the number, he thanked all his lucky stars that he had a friend with a small firm specialising in practically all sorts of repair jobs.

Seeing as this was the middle of Saturday, he wasn't going to have much luck with anyone else, anyway.

"What's going on?"

Back in the studio, Steven raised his head from his notebook to see Mike - the band's drummer - walk in through the door John had just walked out.

"And what's that smell? Something's burning?"

"Our hopes for a decent album, most likely," Steven replied fatalistically.

Mike frowned.

"It appears that the equipment is useless for the time being." Steven nodded at the mixing console. "I think John went to get someone to fix it. Or just to have a quiet nervous breakdown."

Mike sighed and plopped down onto a chair next to Steven's.

"Great."

Steven nodded, thinking of something else already.

"Is Johnny outside?" he asked after a minute.

"Yeah, out front." Mike stretched his legs and crossed his arms behind his head. It looked like he'd just settled for an afternoon of waiting and doing nothing.

Steven got up and went to find Johnny.

The guitarist was indeed standing by the front door of the studio, smoking a cigarette and looking gloomily out on the street.

"Dave's not here yet? He didn't come at the back, did he?" he asked when Steven appeared by his side.

Steven shook his head.

"Fuck." Johnny took a drag on his cigarette, clearly annoyed.

Steven sympathised with the sentiment.

David was their third bassist since they formed the band. The first one - Dale - couldn't really play the bass, he was just a bloke owning one. The second one - Peter - lasted a few gigs and the sessions with Troy, their first producer, but then he announced that he finally landed a role in a film and that he was leaving for Scotland in a week. And he did and that was the last Steven saw of him. Well, to be fair, Peter did always say he'd wanted to be an actor.

Johnny had found David - the third and current bass player - through a friend of a friend shortly before the band went into the studio to re-record what was supposed to be their debut album. Dave was all right and he could play pretty well, but he'd never arrived anywhere on time in his life. He was late for gigs, recording sessions and anything that required any sort of punctuality. Steven was getting more and more fed up with this and judging by the look on Johnny's face, the guitarist was too because when David was late, he was _really_ late. An hour was a standard minimum.

"This is fucking ridiculous." Johnny threw the cigarette butt down and ground it under his heel.

Steven agreed completely, but felt obliged to point out their current predicament:

"It wouldn't be much use if he _were_ on time for once."

"What do you mean?"

"Some cables under the mixing board have just given up the ghost."

At Johnny's disbelieving stare, Steven added: "There was a bit of smoke, but apparently nothing actually burned. John seems to have the matter in hand." He shrugged.

Johnny closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Fucking fantastic."

When he opened his eyes again, it was to a sight of a van parking in front of the studio. The van was white, surprisingly clean and had 'The Handymen' written on its side in bold black lettering.

Johnny and Steven watched as out stepped a man, probably in his forties by the look of him. From the other side of the cab, emerged a boy with blond hair and a metal toolbox in his hand.

Steven's eyes widened. It couldn't possibly be. And yet, it was. He recognised the boy immediately and had an uncomfortably cowardly urge to dart back inside the building and hide somewhere.

He resisted, though, and as the man and Andy - for it was indeed him, despite Steven's prayers that he was somehow mistaken - came closer, he tried his best not to look at them. He stared straight ahead, not registering any of the things he was staring at.

"All right, lads?" the man spoke, eyeing the front of the building with a great deal of interest.

"So," he said as his eyes landed on Steven and Johnny again. "What exactly blew up this time? Or never mind." He waved his hand, not waiting for an answer. "John's in, right? Right. Come on, lad," he addressed Andy without looking at him and went inside.

Andy trailed behind.

"Who was that?" Johnny stared at the spot freshly vacated by the man.

Steven frowned.

"Probably someone John phoned for," he said absently, thinking how despite avoiding Andy with his eyes, he somehow managed to see that Andy avoided his gaze as well. Blank face and eyes determinedly fixed on the studio's doorway, Andy behaved like he'd never seen Steven in his life. And had no desire to do it now.

And Steven discovered with a start that it bothered him. He couldn't understand why. Surely it was better to forget their brief acquaintanceship and pretend it never happened, and yet here he was, frowning fiercely and somehow feeling cheated that Andy didn't even try to catch his eye.

"Earth to Steven Morrissey."

Steven shook off his thoughts as he registered Johnny's hand waving in front of his face.

"You coming in?" Johnny was looking at him with quiet amusement.

Steven reluctantly smiled back.

"Yeah."

They went down the corridor and inside the room housing the actual recording studio and the fatally wounded mixing board where John stood with his hands on his hips. He was obviously speaking to someone hidden under the console.

"An hour?"

"Yep," came the voice from the unseen person. "The damage isn't extensive, but it's gonna be tricky to fix."

John heaved a sigh. "Fine, you're the expert. Just don't make me pay fortune for this. Remember we were in school together, Adam."

"Oh, I do remember." Adam - who turned out to be the man Steven and Johnny saw earlier - crawled from under the console, grinning. "Don't worry, Porter, you're not gonna bankrupt over this."

"Well, I better not," John grumbled.

"Andy," Adam turned back to the boy who had also just resurfaced from under the board. "Bring everything we're gonna need from the van, 'kay?"

"Sure, boss."

Steven, being less subtle this time, watched Andy go. Andy still treated him like Steven wasn't even there and it still stung just a tiny bit.

"Johnny." Steven tugged Johnny's jumper just as the guitarist was about to dive under the mixing console to see the damage for himself. "I'm going out to eat something. You coming?"

Steven didn't really feel up to sitting around the studio, barely two yards away from Andy, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Nah, I'm good," Johnny replied distractedly. "I want to see how it's gonna be fixed."

Steven sighed. "Fine. I'm going then."

He waited, though, until Andy returned with yet more tools, a bunch of wires and some cables. He couldn't risk they'd meet somewhere between the studio and the van and there would be no people around. Cripplingly awkward, that's what it would be. And he would probably be required to talk or at least say 'hello', so no. He was going to avoid it for as long as he could.

For the next hour Steven wandered around. He went to a tea shop and stayed there, nursing his cup of tea for a good portion of that hour. He would've stayed longer except his waitress started flirting with him, taking his pensive gaze for something it obviously wasn't.

Then he went to a bookshop, lost track of time in the 'Cinematography' section and when he finally returned to the studio it was almost nearing sunset.

As he approached the building, Steven saw the van was still standing there, out front. He was relieved, though, to notice Adam leaning against the car's door, chatting with John and Johnny. That meant he was probably about to leave and Andy was surely already sitting in the van, waiting for his boss to stop socialising, get in and drive.

That worry off his mind, Steven went into the studio. And stopped short as he walked right in on Andy tidying the last of the wires.

They looked at each other. Andy shook his head and lowered his eyes, concentrating on the job in hand.

Steven sighed quietly. So it was up to him after all to finally say something.

"So," he began reluctantly. "You're not a..."

Andy looked at him sharply. "Don't say it."

He glanced at the door to make sure no one was coming.

Steven cleared his throat.

"Well, you're not. You've got job and everything."

It sounded incredibly lame even to Steven's ears.

"I've had this job for two years now," Andy said, stuffing pliers into his toolbox and standing up.

"It doesn't pay as much as you may think," he added, seeing Steven's confused gaze.

"Oh."

Steven had no idea what to say.

"So, you still..." he trailed off awkwardly.

"Yeah, I still." Andy huffed a humourless laugh.

Steven couldn't understand at all.

"But why? I mean, you cannot like it--"

"Who the fuck says I like it?" Andy looked angry.

"Then why..." He just couldn't let the matter drop.

"Just shut up, okay? I don't want to talk about it and besides, it's none of your business."

Steven bit his lip. Andy was right, it was none of his business.

Andy's gaze softened and he sighed. "Look, sometimes I need more money and it's for me to know what for. You just forget we'd ever met, all right?"

Right. Of course.

Steven followed Andy with his eyes as Andy moved to the door, but the moment he was about to leave, Johnny came bounding into the room.

"Oh, hey, great you're still here." He grinned at Andy, unaware of the heavy atmosphere. "Your boss says you used to play bass guitar, right?"

Andy eyed Johnny with distrust. "So?"

"So if you're interested, we're looking for a new bass player. Wanna give it a try?"

Steven was momentarily startled hearing the words. He looked at Johnny apprehensively. Where on earth did that come from? Did it mean David disappeared for good instead of merely being late? And, oh God - Steven's eyes darted to Andy - Andy _couldn't_ say 'yes'.

Andy was frowning at Johnny. Was this bloke for real? Andy hadn't had a guitar in his hands for over a year. And when he last had it, it was to sell it.

Well, he needed the money. He had been ill from withdrawal and he needed a fix. Badly. He had been ready to do literally anything. When he came down from his heroine high then, he did regret selling his bass but, well, regrets never did anyone any good. It was pointless to regret. And it was pointless to hope for childish dreams of a life of fame and success to ever come true. It was time to stop dreaming. He didn't look back.

And he soon found a way to earn some money on the side anyway. As long as he could afford the drugs, it didn't matter how exactly he earned money for them.

Besides, considering he hadn't played for so long, he probably wouldn't be a very good bassist.

And he wasn't intending to look back now.

Andy finally shook his head. "Sorry, mate. I don't play anymore."

He turned and left, catching the sight of Steven's relieved face from the corner of his eye. He snorted to himself; yeah, that was predictable.

"Crap." Johnny sighed when the door closed behind Andy.

"What?" Steven asked distractedly, still staring at that door as if waiting for Andy to come back. It was true he was relieved when Andy refused Johnny's offer, but when he watched him go, he had this strange feeling of something important irrevocably slipping away. It didn't make sense.

"I phoned Dave when you were away," Johnny was saying meanwhile. "And it turns out he's got the flu."

Steven blinked. "You sacked him because he's got the flu?"

"What? No!" Johnny looked offended.

"You've just said to him," Steven nodded in the direction Andy left, "that we need a new bassist."

"Well, we could use him during the sessions now. Until Dave got better," Johnny explained as if to a child. "And if the bloke turned out to be any good, we could eventually hire him. Dave's always fucking late and it's starting to get on me nerves."

Yes, with that Steven agreed, but it was a moot point now anyway.

"Come on." Johnny packed his guitar. "Let's head back to your place. Maybe we'll get some writing done at least."


End file.
